Sunday Night Blues.

There’s not a single thing in my body that is eager to go back to work tomorrow. I could be perfectly happy sitting on my orange couch for the next month and a half killing time until it’s time to go back to the States, but that is just wasteful and ridiculous. I could look at it like school is a good way to distract myself from the passing time. Hard to believe I go home next month. 

I’m still wondering if I should go to Buenos Aires in a couple of weeks. Part of me really, super, tremendously wants to go. The other part of me thinks it’s not a wise decision seeing that it’ll just be another exercise in spending money and god only knows I’m already an All-American in that respect. Will I regret not going? Probably. Will I regret not spending money? Probably not. What else could I do that weekend? Rent a car and drive to a closer place, sit around my apartment drinking coffee and reading. 

I’m trying to convince myself that I have to go to work tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day and I intend to go to yoga afterwards, which means I won’t be back home until late. We’ll see how this week goes. I’m really hoping for the time to fly. I wouldn’t normally wish for this so earnestly; it’s just I have important things at home. 

And also? I cannot wait until I live in a place where firecrackers aren’t allowed. I swear to you. EVERY SINGLE TIME THERE IS A F’ING SOCCER GAME the night explodes with firecrackers and horns and yelling for HOURS. This is not even remotely an exaggeration. It makes me anxious and angry and I hate times like these. I’m all for celebration, but it’s not celebration if it happens all the time. It’s just routine and THIS. ROUTINE. SUCKS. You all might think firecracker are fun and wonderful. But come on down and move to this city, live here in my apartment, and then we’ll talk. We’ll sit down over a cup of coffee and you can tell me how you want to split your forehead open and let your brains ooze out onto the slate floor because the neighbors are blowing up homemade bombs each time Palmeiras has their foot on the ball. All this noise for hours makes me want to grab the balls of said neighbors and feed them to their children. We’ll see how long they’ll be cheering then. Unfortunately, I’m just a visitor, and a hermit at that. So I will stick to the bitching-through-blogging and call it a day. I can only hope tomorrow is quieter.